JON CONE ant ant ant ant ant seven

September 30, 2011 § Leave a comment

Yet She Tells You About Owls

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I look for my ax sounds of distant trains

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Horns swirling my ruined reeds

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Cup your hands hold the iron water briefly

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After the storm all morning gathering tree branches

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Wondering about the unreadable billboard I boil an egg

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Ropes and bags of sand even I remember the old garage

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Plums in a plastic bag on the picnic table the fountain lights

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On the path to the water pump sky filled with stars

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At a loss for words using bleach to clean your infected toe

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Laundry on the line grasses move in the ditch

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Stirring ashes with a stick crudely drawn phallus

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The pond is frozen hard nipples beneath your shirt

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Three pennies in a urinal full moon tonight

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Before the universe not even nothing to piss you off

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Toy truck rusts in the sandbox measureless grief

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You don’t even like her yet she tells you about owls

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The juniper is ill with mold I need new eyeglasses

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Sprouting through plastic grass seed left in the rain

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The hammer feels warm I wipe my face with a rag

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Paperbacks my glasses a change tin decorated with pin-ups

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Near the lonely summer telescope an outhouse steams

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Thunder approaches at my desk writing a letter

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Scanning the phone book you find your name

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In the barn straw dust climbs a column of light

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Summer already I catch flies with my bare hand

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By this time next year you won’t even remember why

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T-shirt wet with sweat working the lower register

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The wasp you don’t really like begins a new nest

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On the hill of flowers your ragged mouth gives me ideas

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Black angel in need of repair it’s just me lousy with tools

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